


Signing the Damn Line

by 796116311389, Synesthesia_Demon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Birthday Sex, Blowjobs, Cause..uh, Dirty Talk, Fellatio, M/M, Markers, Oh and there might be a sequel, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Written by two people, and maybe a reference to tumblr...., but I did already warn for porn..., it has a teensy weensy bit of plot, lol, lots of teasing, one spank, ridiculously accurate hearts, talented tongues, we forgot the cake, which is a bit of a spoiler, which is a way more awesome word than
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 07:05:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/796116311389/pseuds/796116311389, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synesthesia_Demon/pseuds/Synesthesia_Demon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>John swallowed again, took a deep breath, then exhaled. Finally he was able to ask, “And the blank lines? W...what are those for?”</i>
</p><p>  <i>Sherlock chuckled and rolled back over. He reached on his left for a marker, and handed it to John. </i></p><p>  <i>“You get to sign your name there, love,” he whispered. “Tonight, I belong to you.”</i></p><p> It's John's birthday and Sherlock tries to give him the perfect gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Signing the Damn Line

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [在该死的线上签字就好](https://archiveofourown.org/works/920933) by [lesley1215](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesley1215/pseuds/lesley1215)



> Written with Synesthesia_Demon <3 We're such a brotp.
> 
> Oh and if you guys want to go to my tumblr and leave me a prompt for a new story, that would be awesome. I think Syn is taking prompts too...
> 
> Enjoy the ride!  
> *snickers*

Sherlock gazed at the mundane, everyday items before him. This was the seventeenth shop he had gone into, looking for _anything_ that would make a good gift for John.  There was never anything that seemed _right_.

 

Socks? Not special enough.

 

New jumper? John is practical, he wouldn’t like such a gift. Not that he’d ever say anything, but still.

 

A new movie? He wasn’t up enough on current culture to make a good choice, so another thing out of the question.

 

Sherlock headed toward the exit of the shop when a magazine caught his eye. (Young adult magazine. Primary audience, female. Young actress, presumably, on the cover, staring with a sultry glare at passerby.  Gaudy red background, an overt attempt to allure customer attention.) He looks at the headline on the left.

 

‘How to give your boyfriend a birthday he’ll always remember! Pg. 71’

 

Sherlock thumbed to page 71 and read the article quickly. Mostly juvenile, but he concedes that there are a few ideas that had not even occurred to him, and one that _had_ occurred to him, but didn’t seem like a traditional gift, and yet, apparently was.

 

Sherlock began mentally checking that he had everything he needed. Oh, he hoped John would like what he had in store for him. He will. No one knows John better than Sherlock.

 

Sherlock throws the magazine back on the rack and whirls around and out of the shop, his coat flaring dramatically. He had a couple of stops to make now that he knew what he needed. He had to hurry though, John’s shift at the surgery would be over in a  few hours. Sherlock mentally created an estimated timetable of what he hoped to accomplish. It would be tight, but perfectly feasible. Yes, the game was on.

 

45 minutes later Sherlock trudged up the stairs to the flat, his hands loaded with bags. It was a shame Mrs. Hudson had gone on holiday to her sister’s for the week. She could have helped him carry some bags up the stairs.

 

Sherlock entered the flat and went to the kitchen and set the bags down. He quickly cleared off the table, well, _mostly_ , and organized his purchases before him.

 

(Picture frame, markers, paper, cake mix, blank cds, roses, a fleece blanket with the  Worcester Warriors rugby team, paint, meat, and _flavored lube_ )

 

Sherlock set about to starting his crafts. He only had a couple hours until John would be home.  

 

He worked diligently and finished with thirty minutes to spare. Now all that was left to do was wait.

 

Half an hour later, John stood on the front steps of 221B and sighed. His day, unfortunately, hadn’t been particularly quiet.

 

He’d insisted on keeping his birthday on the down-low, only reluctantly allowing Harry to take him to lunch at his favourite cafe. He wanted no fuss, no to-do, he’d just wanted a relatively normal day (well, normal for his standards). Harry, however, would have none of it. She didn’t often get to see him, and she was going to make sure she got the most time out of him. And she’d told the _waitstaff it was his birthday_. Were it not for the fact that John was painfully polite, he would have left her there and not spoken to her for another month.

 

John had to admit, though, the fob watch his sister had given him was quite handsome. He traced the circular engravings with the pad of his thumb, finding a little comfort and rhythm in the movements. When asked where she’d gotten it, she shooed the question away. “I was just told it was a gift for a Doctor. And I didn’t steal it, don’t worry about it.” He decided not to inquire further.

 

He had no idea what to expect when he got back to the flat. He hoped that Sherlock hadn’t figured out that something was ever so slightly different about today, but it was a feeble hope. Knowing Sherlock, he’d told Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly and had set up an experiment-based cake. John made a note to not eat any sweets he was given unless they were pre-packaged or made by Mrs. Hudson. And yet, at the same time, he wondered if that was not the case. Part of him was even hopeful that Sherlock would be able to happily surprise him.

 

John shook his head to clear the thought. Much as it were possible, he doubted it was likely. So, sighing, he pushed open the door and called out, “Sherlock? I’m back.”

 

Sherlock was actually giddy, excited even for John’s surprise, but it wouldn’t do to let John see it. Sherlock quickly moved to his chair and sat and steepled his fingers under his chin. He schooled his face into its normal placid mask. He heard John reach the staircase, then 5 stairs up, John had  reached the first part of his surprise. Sherlock listened with bated breath.

 

(John has paused, 13 seconds. He’s continuing. Slower, uncertain. Trepidation? Or....what? Expectations exceeded? Surprise. He wasn’t expecting anything. He wasn’t sure what to expect.)

 

Sherlock had a brief moment of panic as he heard John approach the top of the stairs. _What if he doesn’t like anything? What if I’ve botched up another social thing? How awkward would that make things between us?_ John’s face came into view and did absolutely nothing to assuage Sherlock’s hidden fears.

 

John looked like a gaping fish.

 

Sherlock looked like he always did.

 

John furrowed his brow and pointed at the flowers, a question on his lips, but then his mouth snapped shut and he merely turned, shrugged his coat off and hung it up.

 

Honestly, not the reaction Sherlock was hoping for.

 

“Hello, John. I’ve planned an evening in. If,” Sherlock swallowed, his mouth inexplicably dry, “if you’d like. That is.” _Well, damn. So much for looking calm, if my stupid voice is going to give me away._

 

John looked at Sherlock. He took a deep breath and sighed, “Staying in sounds fine, but- uh, if this is for my birthday...” John trailed off much to Sherlock’s annoyance. Sherlock was quickly becoming convinced that John didn’t want to celebrate his birthday with Sherlock.  Sherlock closed his eyes and stood up straight, smoothing out his suit as he did.  He should have known it would be too much. He shouldn’t have made the ribs with chimichurri. Too elegant, now a waste. He opened his eyes and fixed John with a stare. “I’m sorry, I should have known better.”  

 

_Painfully. Polite._

 

“No, no, Sherlock, it’s...it’s fine.” John walked over and kissed him on the cheek, trying to erase the worry and disappointment from Sherlock’s eyes. “What, uhm, what should I do now?”

 

“Sit down,” he said, pulling out John’s chair hastily. John sat, and watched as he took the flowers John had found on the stairs and placed them in a vase in the window. His eyebrows rose. _The man’s romantic, I’ll give him that._ He stared at the table, watched the shadows dance from the flickering candles. His fingers traced the fob watch again, just to calm his suddenly jumbled nerves. He heard a _pop!_ as Sherlock uncorked something. Champagne? No, that would be a bit _too_ romantic on his part. He sniffed, but couldn’t quite get a proper whiff.

 

Just then Sherlock returned with the bottle. “Cabernet Sauvignon,” he responded to John’s unasked question. “From the States.”

 

“You did not.” John gaped at him. _The States?_ Why on earth would he get his wine from the States when there were cheaper bottles in London?

 

“I did. I’ve been saving it for some time now.” The glass was pushed into John’s hand. “If it’s not to your liking, I could always open a bottle of Domaine St. Michelle-”

 

“No, that’s quite all right,” he replied quickly, taking a sip. Quite all right, indeed; the sweet, sharp taste rolled in his mouth and procured a hum of approval from his lips. “Huh. That’s quite tasty.” He glanced up at Sherlock to catch him grinning, and then watched him stroll back into the kitchen. Well, not so much _him_ as _his backside_. “So, what’s next?”

 

“Patience, John,” came the reply. Sherlock returned with two plates. “Chimichurri ribs. Garlic and herb potatoes. Julienned rainbow carrots.”

 

John’s stomach rumbled at the smell and sight, but he hesitated. Again, Sherlock answered the questions he wouldn’t ask. “I had a little help. Molly...she has a better hand at this than I do.”

 

“So I’m not going to end up poisoned, am I?” he asked teasingly. When there was no reply, he glanced up to see a stone-faced Sherlock staring down at his plate. “Sherlock,” he said, reaching to grab his hand, “I was taking the piss. It’s wonderful. I’m glad you did this, really.” He squeezed his hand.

 

Sherlock smiled faintly and raised his glass. “Happy Birthday, John Watson.”

 

John raised his in response, then knocked it back like a shot.

 

Three glasses later, he felt something brushing against his leg. He frowned and wiggled his leg a bit. Then he glanced up at Sherlock, who winked at him, and John blushed a bit. _He’s being a tease_ , _playing footsie with me._ John grinned in spite of himself. _Romantic man._

 

Sherlock gently rubbed at John’s leg with his foot. He had read in the article that it was a common game of couples and while he had never had the idea ever before, the look on John’s face told him that that he should have. Sherlock took another sip of wine to hide his grin.  Slowly, he worked his foot up, until it was resting on top of John’s thigh (thank God for long legs). John’s face was a bright red blush, but that wasn’t saying much, as it was already rosy from his consumption of several glasses of wine.

 

John looked down at his plate, but Sherlock knew all his attention was focused on Sherlock’s foot.  Sherlock slowly, inch by inch, moved his foot up higher, until it rested in John’s crotch. If Sherlock had thought John was blushing red before, he was sorely mistaken. They would have to invent a name for the shade of red John was currently achieving.

 

“Uh, Sherlock? What are you doing?” John said to his plate.

 

Sherlock folded his hands in front of him and rested his chin on them.

 

“What on Earth do you mean, _John_?” Sherlock asked in a low, rich voice. Sherlock flexed his toes and moved his foot, gently kneading into John. Sherlock got a thrill out of feeling John become half hard. John looked up at Sherlock, his eyes wide. Sherlock noted he was breathing a little bit faster and gave him a small smirk. Then abruptly he took his foot away. and stood up from the table.

 

“It looks like you’re done eating that.” Sherlock pointed to John’s half eaten plate of chimichurri. “Would you like me to take your plate to the sink, John?” Sherlock purposely lowered his voice on John’s name.

 

John’s shoulders were tense and he gave a short nod of affirmation and a long look of bewilderment.

 

Sherlock was enjoying this. His elaborate birthday present to John.

 

Sherlock picked up their dishes and put them in the sink and then turned around and leaned against the counter. “John, would you like your gift or your cake first?”

 

John swallowed. “Uhm I’m-I’m not in the mood for cake at the moment, no,” he managed. He ran his palms over his thighs, and it did nothing to calm the pounding in his chest...or the throbbing in his trousers.

 

“Excellent.” The one word, drawn out and rolled off his tongue in a silky low pitch, made John shiver. What was he in for? “Do stay there for just a moment.” Sherlock passed him on his way to the living room, and John felt his fingers brush his neck as he went. He heard the rustle of plastic sacks, and a soft _thwoosh_ as something light hit the floor. When Sherlock returned he had his scarf in hand, which he promptly wrapped around John’s eyes.

 

“Walk with me, now.” John felt the whisper on his left. His tongue darted out to lick at his lips, and he gave a soft, breathy moan when Sherlock pressed his hand on his bottom to urge him forward. Slowly, and with Sherlock’s guidance, he made his way safely to the living room.

 

He felt the knot as Sherlock tied the scarf behind his head, heard the rustle of fabric and the hiss of a zipper. His curiosity was far more than peaked.

 

“You can look now, John.” His voice was further away than he’d anticipated.

 

John tossed the scarf aside and stared in awe at the sight before him.

 

Sherlock had spread himself out on a blanket (rugby, John managed to register in his quickly short-circuiting brain), naked as ever, covered in strange markings. _No_ , thought John, stepping closer, _not markings_. _Words_. He had written on himself. John approached him to get a better look. Hiding under his dress shirt had been an arrow pointing up, a blank line, and “Mouth Property Of”. Down at his hips, with an arrow pointing to his half-hard cock, a similar sight. His feet, his legs, and he could even see writing on his cock. Property of. _Property of_.

 

“Do you like it?” he asked, watching him carefully through low-lidded eyes. “I’ve even got it on my backside,” he added, rolling over with a grunt. Sure enough, “Arse Property Of” and a blank line.

 

John swallowed again, took a deep breath, then exhaled. Finally he was able to ask, “And the blank lines? W...what are those for?”

 

Sherlock chuckled and rolled back over. He reached on his left for a marker, and handed it to John.

 

“You get to sign your name there, love,” he whispered. “Tonight, I belong to you.”

 

John moved close to Sherlock and Sherlock reached up and cradled John’s neck with his hand, bringing John down to kiss him lazily. The lips met in a soft slide against  one another. John leaned into the kiss and placed his hands onto the floor beside Sherlock’s head. Slowly, he leaned further and further, until he settled himself over Sherlock straddling his hips, never breaking their kiss.

 

Sherlock sighed heavily into their kiss, mindful of their clothing disparity and torn between needing to indulge in his personal clothing kink and needing to see and observe all that is John Watson. It’s John’s birthday, though, and so that means whatever John wants.

 

John leans back from the kiss and smiles softly at Sherlock, their noses still gently touching. Sherlock returns the smile, his hands finding their way to John’s hips.

 

“Sherlock, I don’t think I can sign the dotted line just yet.” Sherlock’s body tensed slightly against his will, but was relieved with John’s next words, “I think I should _inspect_ every bit of you before I sign.” John leaned in next to Sherlock’s ear and whispered, his voice a low growl, “With. My. Mouth.” He emphasized his words with gentle suck and nip at Sherlock’s ear. Then he moved his mouth down lower and began to gently kiss and suck at Sherlock’s neck.

 

Sherlock took in a shaky, deep breath. His skin was tingly and electric, he was excited to be laid bare before John, to have John lying on top of him, _inspecting_ him. John trailed kisses along his chin and came up to meet his mouth. He pressed their lips together and began kissing Sherlock, in a languid, slow, burning, passionate way.

 

Sherlock moved his hands to John’s arse and gave a squeeze, which gave John a smirk, and let him to gently trace Sherlock’s lower lip with his tongue. Sherlock opened his mouth and the kiss deepened. John moved his tongue against Sherlock’s, a sensual pleasure. Sherlock idly moved his hands in circles. John pressed down into Sherlock. There was no mistaking the hard heat that pressed against Sherlock’s abs through John’s jeans.

 

Sherlock arched into John, his whole body alive, and, quite frankly, already _aching_ for more. Sherlock let out a low moan into their kiss, which John reciprocated with a groan of his own and another roll of his hips.

 

John pulled back from their kiss, making Sherlock give out a small whine.

 

John chuckled, “God, I love you like this.” Then he lowered his mouth down to Sherlock’s chest, kissing him right over the heart. Then he gently trailed his lips down to one of Sherlock’s nipples and teased the pink bud hard. He brought his other hand up and gave the other a sharp twist, making Sherlock moan low.

 

Sherlock looked down at John, who lifted his head and with a smirk said, “Glad to see these are in working order.” Then he lowered his lips back down Sherlock’s chest and began kissing a teasing trail lower and lower and lower...

 

Sherlock squirmed. He clenched his teeth and his muscles ached, his skin ached, every part of him longed for John’s touch. Most insistent, was his cock.

 

John kissed Sherlock’s hip to the left of the ‘Property of’ Sherlock had written. It tickled and Sherlock let out a choked giggle, that was as much frustration as it was relief.

 

“ _John_.” Sherlock’s voice was rough with lust. “Oh, God, _please John_.”

 

John didn’t look up at Sherlock and began kissing the inside of Sherlock’s thigh, pointedly ignoring Sherlock’s very obvious and very hard erection. Sherlock groaned in frustration, but didn’t say anything more. This is what John wanted to do and tonight his body was John’s to do with what he pleased. Even if Sherlock wished he’d hurry the hell up.

 

John kissed Sherlock all the way down to his toes without once going near where Sherlock desperately wanted John. Sherlock let out a shaky sigh, that sounded more like a moan, as John kissed the top of his feet. John let out a shaky laugh and looked up at Sherlock’s face with a mischievous grin.

 

“What is it Sherlock? Do you think I’ve _missed_ something?”

 

Sherlock fixes John with a hard stare. Then slowly he moves his gaze down to his own crotch where his erection juts up into the air, the tip moist with pre-cum.

 

John smiles, “Oh, yes. I should probably see to that.” John climbs up Sherlock’s body and leans forward, his hot breath on the head of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock resists every urge to thrust up and waits. John simply hovers. Sherlock twitches. Then suddenly Sherlock is enveloped in the sensation of wet heat. John moves down in a slow descent, his tongue swirling and flicking and gently pressing against the sensitive underside.

 

“Oh, fuck!” Sherlock cusses and he gives an involuntary jerk of his hips. John places steadying hands against Sherlock’s hips and establishes a rhythm that doesn’t quite satisfy. “ _John, please_.” Sherlock was uncertain what he was begging for. He wanted John to suck him until he came, but he didn’t want to be spent without having seen John naked. It was a dilemma.

 

John popped him out of his mouth and grinned slyly at him. “Sherrrrlock,” he purred, “You are delicioussss.” He wrapped his hand around his cock and stroked, to which Sherlock responded with a strangled moan. “But...hmm. It is _my_ birthday, and I don’t think I’ve been getting enough attention, have I?”

 

“No,” grunted Sherlock, thrusting lightly into John’s hand, “No you haven’t.”

 

“Bit of a problem, there... tell me, does this mouth belong to me?” he asked, touching Sherlock’s trembling lips with two calloused fingers. His tongue darted out and licked the tips, and John shivered.

 

“Yes, oh yes it does, John.”

 

“Well then.” He abruptly pulled away to lay flat on the blanket. “I think I’d like to use that mouth on me now.” He gestured to his fully-clothed crotch. “Undo me, would you?” When Sherlock reached for him, he said “Ah-ah. With your mouth. Unzip me with your mouth.”

 

John closed his eyes for a moment before he felt Sherlock’s face nuzzle his crotch. His nose pressed between his thighs and moved upward, tracing John’s cock through his trousers. John felt the lips that pressed themselves against the base, that kissed upward, following the path that his nose had made. He felt the damp heat from Sherlock’s mouth as it half kissed, half sucked at the head of his prick through the fabric. Sherlock’s hands spread him at the knees and slid up his thighs, but didn’t touch anywhere near where his mouth was. John moaned lightly. Sherlock smiled and moved up, his kisses fluttering against John’s belly, just above his waistband. A tongue darted out with each press of Sherlock’s lips, and John hummed his approval and ran his hands through Sherlock’s hair. His grin turned wolfish as he took the corner of fabric between his front teeth and tongued the button out of its hole. _That tongue_ , thought John, _it’s going to kill me, I swear_. Sherlock’s nose nudged the cloth aside and rubbed again against his cock.

 

Without warning he began snogging, really _snogging_ where John’s balls and the base of his cock met. John whimpered and tightened his grip on Sherlock’s hair. The suck and pull of Sherlock’s mouth had him pushing forward into his face. Out of reflex, Sherlock pinned him flat and held his thighs down. Goosebumps erupted all over John, but the bigger thrill came when he ordered, “Put those hands of yours to better use, Sherlock. Touch yourself. Now. And suck me off.”

 

Sherlock nudged John’s red pants aside and sucked up the shaft, while slipping his hand around his own drooling cock. John watched as he coated his palm in the glistening precum and squeezed around the head. His arm jerked forward and back as he pleasured himself in front of John, and John had to tug on his hair a bit to remind him of what else he’d been doing.

 

“Don’t...cum....” he panted as Sherlock bobbed his head on John’s cock. “You can touch yourself all you want but _don’t cum yet...nnngh_ ,” he moaned as Sherlock’s tongue wiggled into the slit at the top. “God I want to cum in that pretty mouth of yours, would you like that?” he panted, and grinned a bit at Sherlock’s eager nod. “Well...I’m not...going to just yet...” He guided Sherlock’s head up and down, lower and lower onto his cock before he got it all in his throat. He felt Sherlock swallow and almost shot cum down Sherlock’s silky wet throat. He pulled him up and stared, glancing back and forth between his flushed face and his cock, which Sherlock was slowly stroking instead of the feverish wanking he’d started with. _God_ , did he look glorious and delectable. His whimpers made him almost as hot as his mouth had. And he was just there on his knees and one hand, wanking himself because John told him to.

 

There was a slight pain in his balls as he shifted, and he looked down to see the band on his pants pressing them down. He gave Sherlock’s hair a tug. “Sherlock.” When he looked up again, John said, “I’m still dressed. Help me out of these, would you?” he asked, standing up unsteadily with his trousers around his knees.

 

Sherlock being much taller than him was a great advantage. When he was able to kick his bottoms off, Sherlock was able to slip his hands under his jumper and ease it off of him, running his hands all over his torso and arms to bring back the goosebumps as he did so. And he could line his throbbing prick against John’s backside and press against him as he stood behind him. Sherlock’s hands slid over John’s shoulders, across his chest, and then under to rub against his sides and back. He planted kisses at the back of his neck, up to either ear, and over his collarbone. John leaned back against him and tilted his head so he could get under his chin.

 

“Mm, Sherlock, that mouth of yours is so bloody wonderful...” he purred. Sherlock’s kisses grew more fervent, more eager, and a bit more sloppy as they became open-mouthed. John pushed back against him, feeling his cock slide into the cleft of his buttocks. “Mm, you like that?” he asked when Sherlock groaned, rather _loudly_ , against John’s right shoulder. He repeated it and Sherlock jerked against him with another loud moan.

 

“Turn around and get down on all fours. I want to see this arse that belongs to me now.”

John turned with Sherlock, and Sherlock bent at the waist first, to rub up against John’s achingly hard cock. John responded with a firm smack. “Cheeky git,” he accused with a chuckle.

 

Sherlock’s gasp of pleasure thrilled John to the core. As Sherlock got down on the ground, he smacked his other arsecheek and he squeaked with mild indignation. John bent over Sherlock and kissed along his lower back (as that was all he could really reach). He spread his cheeks and licked his tongue along the slit. He heard Sherlock moan “God _, yes_ ,” and slid his tongue inside him. Sherlock’s head fell forward, and he cried out when John gave his tongue a wiggle. John pressed a kiss to his backside and stroked his fingernails up the backs of his thighs.

 

Sherlock hissed with pleasure at the delicate pain of his thighs being scratched. His breathing was erratic and the pleasure coursing through him threatened to send him over the edge. John’s tongue inside him was the most amazing sensation and Sherlock was getting dizzy from all the blood rushing to his swollen cock.

 

“Ah, ungh, John. _John_. _More_.” Sherlock groaned out low and rough. “Take what’s yours, _ungh_.” Sherlock was panting, his arms fighting to hold him up while simultaneously fighting the urge to just take himself in his hands and finish himself.

 

John stopped tonguing him and pulled back, with light kisses on his cheeks, which trailed up to his back.

 

“I’ll be right back.” John whispered lustily.

 

“N-no. The lube is right there on your right.” Sherlock weakly pointed to where the lube did indeed lie, just within John’s reach.

 

John picked up the lube and Sherlock heard the smile in his voice.

 

“Cherry flavoured, Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock simply pushed his arse back towards John.

 

John squeezed the cool lube out onto his fingers. He then leaned his face back into Sherlock and gently teased Sherlock’s tight pink hole with his tongue. He darted his tongue in and out and then carefully he slid a finger in with his tongue. Sherlock rocked back onto the familiar callused finger, which burned slightly with its insertion despite the lube, but would soon have Sherlock writhing in pleasure anyway.

 

John pulled back his tongue, but kept fingering at Sherlock. A steady rhythm of in and out, hide and seek, looking for that one spot. Sherlock tensed his muscles and tried to draw John in, to encourage him to add another finger. Sherlock shifted and that’s when John’s finger pressed against his prostate.

 

“ _Oh, fuck. John, ungh, yes! John, more, please, yes_!” Sherlock rambled in a continuous moan.  John was quick to comply and gently inserted, not one, but two more fingers into Sherlock,  moving them in opposing directions, spreading Sherlock.

 

Sherlock grunted at the tight burn of being stretched the pain mixing with pleasure and shooting through all of him. His cock popped up against his lower abdomen and his bollocks were so tight and sore. He just wanted to cum so bad that he was nearly delirious.

 

John pulled his fingers out and Sherlock let out a soft keening noise. He felt John lineup with his hole, the soft head of John’s cock pressing forward, the tip slick with precum. John gently pushed forward and Sherlock’s body gave a tremble.

 

“Ah-ahh, John, unh!” Sherlock couldn’t get out what he wanted to tell John. That John was perfect, that John filled him, that John needed to just _fuck_ him, that he just _needed_. Somehow though John knew. John always knew what Sherlock wanted to say, even when it didn’t make sense.

 

John pressed himself fully into Sherlock and held himself there for a moment. Sherlock could feel John shaking, his body tense with the need to just pound into Sherlock.

 

“Are you okay?” John asked quietly.

 

“I will be once you start fucking me.” Sherlock retorted, but there was none of his usual bite.

 

John chuckled. Then he started slamming into Sherlock at a bruising pace. Sherlock nearly fell forward it was so sudden, but he caught himself and pressed back towards John in tandem with his thrusts.

 

John’s thrusts started to become erratic and Sherlock knew John was close.

 

“T-together!” Sherlock choked out between moans as John’s cock kept hitting that one sweet spot inside of him, blinding him with pleasure.

 

John leaned forward while still thrusting and wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s aching erection. It was almost like being doused with cold water, the relief that Sherlock found in John’s touch.

 

He bent forward over Sherlock, pressed his free hand against his chest, and grunted, “You’re...mine...Sherlock Holmes. You...are...mine!” He arched back to push himself as deep as possible into him, and it made Sherlock whimper, “ _Please_.”

 

“You...ready?”

 

“God, _yes_!”

 

Hot seed splattered on John’s hand, and the feel of Sherlock cumming and writhing beneath him brought his own orgasm to near-violent peak. John’s left hand dragged scratches along Sherlock’s back as he came. He slammed into him over and over, even after Sherlock was barely holding himself up on shaky long limbs. “Sherlock, Sherlock, oh god _Sherlock_ ,” he moaned, twitching and shuddering for what seemed to them both like forever. Finally he fell forward onto him, which instead of being restful, sent the two of them sprawling onto the blanket.

 

John giggled a bit as he slid his arm around his sweaty, sticky, adorably sexy boyfriend, trying not to accidentally slather him in his own cum. Sherlock grabbed his wrist and stroked it.

 

“Happy birthday, John Watson,” he whispered, turning his head to kiss John.

 

John returned it, and then said with a smile, “It’s not over yet.” He stood up and stumbled to the washroom for some wet cloths. After he’d wiped them both down, John sat beside him, cross-legged, rolling the marker between his forefinger and thumb. “I seem to remember someone telling me I had to sign off on something. Well, some _one_ ,” he corrected, turning to Sherlock with a narrow-eyed, toothy grin. Sherlock beamed back, stretching out on his back to allow him full access.  “Now hold still,” warned John as the pen inched closer to Sherlock’s collarbone, “I don’t want to mess this up.” He wrote his name in painstakingly slow cursive. Sherlock’s lips twitched but he didn’t move. John moved to his ribs, where two arrows pointed to his nipples and there was another line to sign. Sherlock’s breath quickened, and the rapid rise and fall of his chest made it a little more difficult, but otherwise his signature was flawless. When he got to his belly, though, Sherlock squirmed a bit. And he squeaked when John held him still, his hand on the side of the arrow. When he finished that, he _tsk_ ed.

 

“Not as nice as the other ones, hmm...I wonder why,” he asked as he patted Sherlocks side, causing Sherlock to wiggle and try to avoid his wandering fingers. “We’ll try again, turn over, would you?”

 

John placed his hand in the middle of his back as he signed. Sherlock relaxed when he’d thought John was finished, but John had other ideas. He traced a heart on Sherlock’s left buttock, then his right, and then proceeded to colour it in.

 

Which, of course, tickled Sherlock enough to make him giggle.

 

“Jo-hohn, what are you doing?”

 

“Oh, you know, just marking you. Since you’re mine and all.” He turned him over. Sherlock tried to scoot away as the pen came back towards his belly.

 

“Oh no, there were lines to sign and that was enough,” he warned, but John grabbed him by the ankle (thank goodness for his long legs) and dragged him back.

 

“Oi! I’m not done with you yet!” He straddled Sherlock and rapidly scribbled things all over his chest and belly.

 

“John _what are you doing stop!_ ” he squealed, trying to twist out of his grasp.

 

“Sexiest...bum...ever,” he read as he wrote, “Cute...tight...arse...”

 

“Oh god,” moaned Sherlock, throwing his hands over his face and muffling his laughter. John tossed the marker aside and tickled him. Sherlock yelped and fought him for a bit before finally getting his hands over John’s. John squeezed his side and there was no reaction. Sherlock smirked.

 

“The best way to stop someone from tickling you is to put your hands over theirs. It tricks their body into thinking they’re your own, and since you can’t tickle yourself...”

 

“Hmm, true,” conceded John, bringing his hands up and out, “But that doesn’t mean I can’t do this!” He pressed his lips to his belly and blew a raspberry. It caught Sherlock completely off guard and he couldn’t hold back a shriek.

 

“John _nooo_!” He let go of John’s hands and John slipped them under his arms. Sherlock’s howling and begging only kept him going.

 

“Oh you beautiful thing,” he teased, then wiggled his tongue into his belly button. Sherlock groaned in response and tried to buck him off. John took pity on him and leaned back, gazing proudly at the shaking, drawn-on mess that was Sherlock.

 

Sherlock breathed shakily after all the laughing from being tickled by John. He looked up and his eyes met John’s. Sherlock couldn’t help but grin at _his_ John and was delighted by the return smile on his face.

 

Then, Sherlock looked down at his chest and gave a more tight-lipped smile.

 

“John, did you have to scribble over _all_ of me? Is that a _kissy_ face?” Sherlock propped himself on his elbows and cocked his head to try and get a better view of the scribble on his left hip, which was indeed a kissy face. He rolled his eyes and looked back to John’s face.

 

“Do you mind getting off of me for a minute? I still have more birthday gifts to give you.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John.

 

John gave a look of surprise and casually moved off of Sherlock’s waist. “Really?”

 

Sherlock stood with  grunt, his body tired and exhausted, but in a wonderfully pleasant way. “Yes, John. Really, really.”

 

Sherlock disappeared down the hall and into his room.

 

When he came back out, it was with a ridiculously printed bag, topped with colourful paper popping out of the top. John eyed the bag warily.

 

“That’s for _me_?” John asked cautiously.

 

Sherlock glared at John. “If you don’t want it you don’t have to have it.”

 

John raised his hands to take the gift. “No, I’ll take it. It isn’t body parts, though, right?”

 

“Oh, just open it.” Sherlock huffed.

 

John carefully pulled the paper off the top of the package and paused at the gifts before him. Then he gingerly lifted them out one by one and placed them on the floor before him. All in all there were three items.

 

Sherlock couldn’t quite read the look on John’s face.

 

(Orbicularis oris slightly drawn and elevated; Orbicularis oculi tightened, preemptive of uncontrollable emotion? Meaning: Unknown, unrecognizable)

 

Then John started laughing and Sherlock was staring down in confusion.

 

“What? Why are you laughing? What is it?” Sherlock snapped, irritated at being laughed at.

 

John smiled, stood, and kissed Sherlock delicately on his lips. “Thank you, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Sherlock instantly relaxed, but he was still confused. “Explain.”

 

John looked down at his gifts, “Well, I never pegged you for an arts and crafts guy.”

 

Sherlock looked down at what he had made for John.

 

A decorated picture frame with a picture of them in it, a DVD, and a homemade card which read ‘For MY Watson’ and was covered in _ridiculously accurate_ pictures of _hearts_.

 

Sherlock summoned his most haughty voice, “Of course I am, John. I’m brilliant at everything.”

 

John pointed to the DVD, “What’s that?”

 

Sherlock grinned mischievously.

 

“Well, I read this article that said that boyfriends enjoyed it when you did something sexy for their birthday-”

 

John snorted, “And you lying naked on a rugby team blanket wasn’t sexy?”

 

“Hush John. As I was saying, something sexy _and memorable_.” Sherlock looked at John pointedly, trying to convey the contents of the DVD with his eyebrows alone.

 

John just gave Sherlock a searching blank look, which made Sherlock throw his arms up and huff.

 

“Come on, John. _Obviously_ , it’s a homemade porn video starring me." Sherlock paused before continuing, "As a pirate. That’s the memorable part.” Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically.

 

John just stared for a moment more in shock as the words sank in. Then he took in a deep shaky breath.

 

“In this...porno...of you being a pirate...” John bit his lip, trying desperately not to giggle. “Do you got the booty?”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! We hope you enjoyed it!
> 
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> http://synesthesiademon.tumblr.com/ is synesthesia's account and she posts some really wonderful smut every Friday for Penis Friday. I really can't do her enough justice describing her blog, so just go follow her! She's awesome!
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